Bah-Humbug Mother

This Mother’s Day morning, I lingered in my bed, listening to my husband and two sons “inventing” French toast in the kitchen for my Mother’s Day breakfast. I love to listen to them chatter: William filling his dad in on the previous day’s sports results, eager to discuss the repercussions on their fantasy teams; Quinn improvising with the cream and sugar and demanding that everyone appreciate how well he can mix; and my husband easily carrying on two simultaneous conversations while keeping the breakfast on track. I love French toast and I love lingering in bed, both rare pleasures, so I couldn’t quite pinpoint why I was feeling so anti-Mother’s Day.

Though I’d gushed and shrieked, I’d felt a little annoyed (and then guilty for feeling annoyed, annoyed for feeling guilty, and so on ...) when the kids had given me a Spa-day gift at the crack of dawn. It wasn’t the early hour; we’re a house of early-risers, and it wasn’t the gift either, God knows I drop enough hints—and Bliss catalogs in the bathroom—in any given week to leave little doubt that a spa certificate is the key to my heart ... just ... well, not on Mother’s Day.

For the week leading up to Mother’s Day, I’d found myself bristling at the steady stream of “Happy Mother’s Day!” salutations at every store and streetcorner. Did the guy at RiteAid even know if I had kids? Maybe the baggage under my eyes gave me away—or maybe his manager forced him to say it to every customer. I was annoyed by the elaborate ad campaigns to “give mother what she deserves” which they decided was chocolates, flowers, diamonds, and perfume. I was mad that my son was going on a school excursion to paint pottery and plant seeds for Mother’s Day gifts, as if his scrawled M-O-M was not precious enough.

I was bothered that I had to find a “thoughtful” gift for my mother-in-law as though just telling her how much we appreciate her was not enough. I was frustrated at myself because I hadn’t written—and forced the kids to write—a card to my own mother in time to reach Australia by Mother’s Day. I knew I’d speak with her on Mother’s Day, as I do every other Sunday, but I felt I’d failed her by not buying and sending a clever card, complete with a hand-drawn picture and recent photographs.

Irritation, annoyance, anger, bother, frustration, failure—these are not exactly the emotions you’d expect from a mother of two in the lead-up to her biggest Holiday of the year. But as I lay on imposed bed rest on Mother’s Day morning, I realized that was my problem—Mother’s Day feels like any other “Holiday” that we stress, shop, clean, and cook for.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to celebrate. I love to shop, I love to eat, I love to see the people I care about, and I love to get spa days. I love my children, and I count my blessings on a daily basis. But this year, all of a sudden, I was hating on Mother’s Day. When I whispered to my husband “you didn’t have to get me a spa-day,” he laughed heartily and said “Oh, but I did!” And I guess he did.

I’ve been wearying of Holidays in general for a while now, but I haven’t had the backbone or the heart to really shake up how we celebrate.